The moment they were back at Storm’s house, Livvy went straight for Angelina. Her hands trembled as she lifted her daughter into her arms, burying her face in the soft scent of baby powder and safety. Relief hit her in waves, fierce and raw, burning behind her ribs.
Storm watched her from the doorway. His eyes were dark, unreadable, his jaw tight—like he hadn’t breathed easy until she was back in his sight.
Livvy hesitated, fingers curling tighter around Angelina’s blanket.
She had almost lost this.
Almost lost everything.
She turned to face him. “Promise me.” Her voice cracked slightly. “If something happens to me, you’ll protect her. No matter what.”
Storm’s gaze sharpened, his entire body going still.
“Don’t,” he said roughly. “Don’t even say that.”
Her throat tightened. “Promise me,” she insisted, desperate. “Please.”
His hand lifted, cupping her cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear she hadn’t realized had fallen.
“If anything happens to you,” he growled, voice low and lethal, “I’ll burn this world to the fucking ground.”
He pulled her closer, his grip unyielding. “But I won’t let anyone touch her.” A pause. “Or you.”
The words shattered something in her. A sob tore from her chest, raw and aching, and then— his mouth was on hers. It was brutal. Consuming. Desperate. It was all teeth and tongue and fury, like he could brand the promise into her skin.
Livvy gasped, her hands fisting in his shirt, his body pressing her against the wall, rough and possessive.
“You’re mine,” he growled against her throat. His hands slid lower, grip bruising, claiming.
And Livvy—Livvy let him, because in that moment, she was.
She bit her lip, a shudder rolling through her as another touch—colder, rougher—threatened to surface.
A different bedroom. A different man. Stanley’s hands had never been gentle. He hadn’t caressed—he had possessed.
Be still, sweetheart. His voice had been a low purr, almost coaxing, but his grip had told a different story—unyielding fingers pressing into her wrists, pinning them above her head.
She had learned not to flinch. Not to fight.
It’s your duty, Livvy.
She had hated that word. She had hated the way he made it sound like love, even as he stripped her of her choices, of her voice. Of herself.
The way his lips had ghosted over her skin, making her stomach twist in revulsion.
Relax, he had murmured, I’m doing this for us.
But it had never been for them. It had been for him. And when months passed and her stomach remained flat, his touch had turned crueler. Stanley had never yelled. He had never needed to.
His disappointment was worse than anger. It was quiet, patient. The slow tap of his fingers against the nightstand, the way he studied her like she was a malfunctioning machine.
"Are you broken, sweetheart?"
Livvy had choked back the lump in her throat, pressing her fingers into her thighs beneath the sheets. I don’t know.
His hand had trailed along her jaw, deceptively gentle.
“Maybe you’re not trying hard enough.”
A soft kiss to her temple, a slow stroke of his thumb against her cheek—like he adored her.
Like it was her fault.
The memory choked her. Storm shifted above her, his grip tightening—pulling her back. Here, now, his hands demanded but never took. His touch didn’t smother, didn’t make her shrink.
Livvy gasped, nails digging into his back, clinging to the difference—the undeniable truth that Storm had never needed to force.
And Stanley had never asked.